The Mummer's Dance
by TheScarletOctopus
Summary: Welcome to the sleepy town of Brennan's Ford, Idaho. Meet the two newest residents: Cat Valentine, a young woman fleeing her abusive ex, whose unborn child she's carrying; and Andre Harris, a friend of Cat's who fears for her safety. Let's hope these two like it here. For you see, Brennan's Ford has a little secret; and those who stumble on it don't tend to leave...ever.
1. Eight Words

**A/N: Time for that comparative rarity in the **_**Victorious**_** fandom, a Cat/Andre-centric tale. Whether it'll be a romantic ship or not I haven't yet decided; in any event, this is unlikely to be a romance-centered story. I chose Cat because there's no better way to build suspense than to put the adorable little redhead in danger; and Andre's here because there'll be some action-hero type stuff later on that Robbie, bless him, isn't really cut out for.**

**Also, any of you who come to this story after having read "Day of the Stallion" may get the impression that I have some kind of phobia about small towns. I assure you that's not the case (I actually prefer them to big cities). It's just that they provide a good setting for stories in genres that I particularly like; in "Stallion" it was the Revenge of Nature tale, while here it's…well, you'll just have to find out, won't you? (There'll be more disclaimers to come, but adding them here would constitute spoilers.)**

**Finally: while this isn't really a songfic per se, it does have what you might call a "theme song" – The Mummer's Dance, by Loreena McKennitt. You can listen to it here (remove the spaces):**

** www. youtube. com watch?v= cSbVqFvf4EM &feature=fvst**

**Disclaimer: As ever, don't own.**

_October 2013_

The blood was still congealing on Cat Valentine's lip as she sprinted into the house and locked herself in the bathroom. Gary had hit her before, but never this hard; her whole lower jaw was slowly but surely going numb.

She could hear his shouts from down below: "Cat, baby, come back! I didn't mean it – I'm so sorry. Let me make it up to you. Cat? Can you hear me? I said get back _down_ here, damn it!"

Quickly she turned off all the lights and crouched in the bathtub with her hands over her ears. He pounded on the front door with both fists, raised his voice, screamed until he was hoarse, but still she crouched there, whispering the Lord's Prayer over and over.

At last he left. She uncurled herself and drew a tiny stick of plastic from her pocket. In the dim light of the harvest moon through the window, it was just possible for her to make out the word that had appeared on it last night, the word that had destroyed her life:

PREGNANT.

Why had she let him pressure her into going that far? All the time that he was taking off her clothes, kissing her neck, sliding his hands lower and lower on her body, she had wanted to cry "Stop!" But she knew that the moment she protested he would clamp his powerful hand around her arm and squeeze until blue and black fingerprints appeared, while he whispered in her ear "You're not in control here, so _shut it_." The fact of the matter, though Cat would never admit it even to herself, was that she had been raped. And now she was carrying the child of a man whom she had once thought she loved, but toward whom she now felt nothing but disgust – and fear.

The moment her parents found out, they would disown her. She was sure of that. Her father, in one of the drunken binges that seemed to happen more and more frequently ever since he lost his job, had already called her a "cheap little slut". And once Gary learned the truth, he would try to force her into an abortion – maybe even beat her until she miscarried.

There was no place for her here. Not anymore.

But where to go? Gary knew all her favorite refuges, where her relatives lived – he had taken pains to make sure that she would have nowhere to run. If she was going to escape him, she would have to find somewhere so distant, and so unexpected, that he would never in a thousand years guess it.

She went into her room and drew a huge U.S. atlas – a birthday gift from her uncles – off the shelf. Closing her eyes, she whirled her finger around and around, then jabbed it at random into the map. Idaho. That would do. A big but thinly populated state, with lots of space to disappear in.

Next she turned to the Idaho state map and repeated the process. When she opened her eyes, her index finger was sitting atop a dot scarcely bigger than a pinprick, and the letters next to it needed a magnifying glass for her to read them.

It was perfect.

/

_May 2014_

"Hey, Grandma. It's Andre. Um…classes are going pretty well. Organic chemistry's kicking my butt, though. And my part-time job's nice – the boss says I'm the best piano tuner he's ever had. Still writing songs in my spare time…kinda low on ideas, though. And…and I miss you, Grandma. So much. I know I say that every time I'm here, but it's true."

Carefully he wiped away the dirt and leaves that had accumulated on Charlotte Harris's headstone.

"I gotta go. English paper due tomorrow. But I'll be back next week. Goodbye, Grandma. Love you."

Back in the car, he couldn't bring himself to start the ignition. Leaving here meant returning to an empty house, and being overwhelmed with the painful memories of the past year. His grandmother's death from a cancer as sudden as it was virulent. His parents contacting him for the first time in a decade, just to tell him they were divorcing. And sweet little Cat Valentine, the closest thing to an angel he had ever known, vanishing off the face of the Earth without even so much as a farewell note.

The little gang from Hollywood Arts still chatted online, and those who were going to college in California got together once a month to catch up. But since Cat's disappearance, they always left an empty chair for her at their lunches, hoping, irrationally, that she would show up out of the blue and bring the spark of joy back to their lives. And with each passing month, that slender hope faded.

Seeking desperately for something, anything, to give him an excuse to delay going home, Andre took out his PearPad and opened up his web browser. The big news, as it had been for several days now, was the saber-rattling between the U.S. and China over Taiwan. Apparently some analysts were predicting it might actually explode into all-out war. Andre skimmed the story carelessly, then checked his e-mail. His inbox was crammed with the usual junk. "Increase your manhood…" "You've won the Nigerian lottery…" "Caterina needs your help…"

Andre did a double take.

_Caterina?_

He examined the e-mail more closely. The sender's address was nothing but a string of asterisks. _Anonymous, huh?_ he thought. _Probably somebody playing a twisted little game. _ Cat's disappearance was public knowledge, and Andre knew there were sickos out there who wouldn't hesitate to take advantage of the situation to toy with the emotions of the people who knew and loved Cat. But then again, if he didn't look, and it turned out that she really _was_ in some kind of trouble, he'd never be able to forgive himself. One way or another, he had to know.

He clicked on it.

The image that appeared on the screen, apparently taken from a distance with a zoom-lens and date-stamped yesterday, told him at once that something more was at work than simple trolling. It was Cat, all right. She was sitting on a porch swing, with a book open on her lap – from the red letters he could just barely make out, Andre guessed it was a Bible – and a tall glass of lemonade at her side. She wore a simple yellow frock and straw sandals. On her face was a smile of utter peace and contentment.

And she was very heavily pregnant.

Andre swore under his breath. He had known there had to be _some_ reason why she had disappeared so suddenly without telling anyone where she was headed. No doubt the child belonged to Cat's loathsome ex-boyfriend, Gary.

It was no secret that Gary was abusive. But whenever Cat's friends had urged her to leave him, she had stubbornly refused – so great was his psychological control over her. After she vanished, Gary, who didn't know how to function without someone to torment, had taken to drugs. He became increasingly unstable, picked fights, was in and out of jail. Finally he, too, skipped town. He wasn't missed.

At least, wherever Cat was, she was free of his manipulations and his brutality. It warmed Andre's heart to see that gentle smile again after so long – once she began dating Gary, it had vanished completely.

He scrolled down.

Beneath the photograph was a string of numbers. Andre racked his brain, trying to figure out what they could be. A phone number? A license plate? No – GPS coordinates. He plugged them into a global locator app and found that they pointed to a small town somewhere in Idaho.

Now he was torn. Part of him desperately wanted to hurry out there, to see Cat, to chastise her for scaring the living daylights out of her friends, and at the same time to hug her tight. But judging from the photo, she was perfectly happy in her new life. And really, what right did he have to interfere? This was the path Cat had chosen, and if she really wanted to cut all ties with the past that was entirely her business.

He scrolled down further.

"No," he whispered. It seemed as though the temperature in the room had suddenly fallen thirty degrees.

Eight words. All caps, no signature. Eight words that he suddenly wished _were_ a sick joke – because as horrible as that would be, it was still better than accepting that the sentence was a genuine…threat? Warning? He didn't know which; but either way his mind was made up – he would go to Idaho, and he would protect Cat, no matter what the cost.

He read the sentence again, every word like a punch in the gut:

"ONCE SHE GIVES BIRTH, SHE'S GOING TO DIE."


	2. Stranger in a Strange Land

**A/N: To those who've reviewed, favorited, and followed this story so far, many thanks. And if you're reading this and haven't yet reviewed, please do. I'm putting my all into this one, and it helps me a great deal if I know that there are people out there enjoying it.**

**Suggested background music for this chapter: Loreena McKennitt's version of the Irish folk tune "Brian Boru's March" -**

**http: www. youtube. com watch?v =fIlG8Sjlv-w**

**Disclaimer: As ever, don't own. **

If the proprietress of the Brennan's Ford Bed and Breakfast was startled by the sudden appearance of a new would-be guest on her doorstep at 9:00 on a Saturday morning, she gave no sign of it.

"Sign here, please," she said with a bland, almost painted-on smile, shoving the register across to Andre. "Length of stay?"

"I'm not really sure, actually. Hopefully not more than a couple of days, but it might be longer."

"Well, we're always happy to entertain visitors, but I should warn you that there's not a whole lot here that's exactly tourist-oriented. Once you've done the horse-and-buggy tour and gone fly fishing, you're pretty much out of options."

"No problem. I'm not here to play tourist anyway."

"Mmm. What _is_ your business here, then? If you don't mind my asking," she added hurriedly.

"I kinda _do_ mind." Andre had never had much patience with nosy people.

She held out her palms in a gesture of submission. "In that case, forget I ever said anything. Lunch is at twelve on the dot, and dinner's at six. If you need anything, dial 0."

"Great. I'm guessing it's probably too late for breakfast, but do you know anywhere I could grab a cup of coffee and some scrambled eggs or something?"

"Your best bet is Flaherty's. Two blocks south, on the right. Can't miss it."

As soon as he had left, the proprietress examined the ledger to make sure of his name, and then began a comprehensive web search for "Andre Harris". The first image result that turned up was from his Hollywood Arts graduation. In blue cap and gown, he was tightly hugging the similarly dressed Caterina Valentine.

"Oh dear," the proprietress murmured. She picked up the phone and dialed a familiar number.

"It's me. It seems we may have a little problem."

/

On the outside, Flaherty's looked like any small-town diner, but the inside was a different story altogether. Every inch of the walls was covered with elaborate decoration – scrolls, loops, and curlicues in red, green, and gold, broken up every few feet by sculpted heads in terra-cotta, some human, others animal. In a cursory glance around, Andre could spot boars, deer, cattle, and horses staring back at him with blue-glazed eyes. It was somehow beautiful and disturbing at the same time.

The diner was bustling and noisy; Andre quietly slipped into the lone unoccupied booth. A few moments later, he was amazed to see that the waitress who waddled up to him, her apron barely covering her swollen belly, was none other than Cat.

She was frantically scribbling down orders on her notepad, and it was several moments before she looked up. "Sorry for your wait, sir. What can I get for…_**Andre?**_" she practically shrieked.

He stood up and hugged her. "Hey, Little Red. Long time no see."

Her expression was a jumble of delight and astonishment. "What the heck are you _doing_ here? How did you find me?"

"Um…long story." _No point in worrying her any more than I have to._ "Just wanted to check up on you. I hope you don't mind."

"Of course not! You can't imagine how much I've missed you! Let me get you a piece of pie. Apple. Or pecan. Ooh! Pumpkin, with lots of whipped cream!"

Andre chuckled. Despite everything she had been through, some of the old Cat still shone through. "Just coffee would be fine…but I'll get it myself, if that's okay. You shouldn't even be on your feet, let alone working, when you're…" He gestured at her belly. "You must have one heck of a demanding boss."

"Nah. I'm doing this 'cause I want to. Working helps keep my mind off things. And once the baby's born, I won't be able to do much of anything for a long time except change diapers and wipe up spit." She grinned. "Still looking forward to it, though. Being a mom will be just about the greatest thing ever."

"Yeah…" He thought again of the grim message he had received. "Listen, Cat, maybe it's not my place to ask this, but…would you maybe think about coming back to LA with me? At least for a little while? Your friends all want to see you."

She shook her head firmly. "My place is here. This is where I belong."

"Wow. You sound…incredibly sure."

"I've never been more sure about anything. I've made a home here, Andre. There are people here who love me more than my parents ever did. And I don't want to raise a child in LA. It's scary. All the noise and pollution and crime."

"You never felt that way about LA before."

"Coming here changed the way I see the world."

Something about the tone in which she spoke those words unsettled Andre. It wasn't that she sounded insincere; obviously she believed what she was saying with all her heart. But the expression seemed not to be her own. It felt…programmed, almost, as if someone were feeding the words via wire directly into Cat's brain.

There was nothing to do but take things up a notch. Still, he was resolved to tread delicately.

"Listen…I don't want to freak you out, but…Gary left LA a while ago, and nobody's got any clue where he ended up. What if he turns up here someday, looking for revenge? Who would protect you and the baby?"

She shrugged. "Let him come. I don't care."

"_What?_ Don't you remember the way he treated you?"

"Of course I remember. But I'm not afraid of him – not here. This place…it's like Heaven, Andre. Nobody ever gets mugged, or punches anybody – heck, I don't think I've even heard a single _argument _since I got here. It feels like there's some kind of force-field around the whole town, keeping all the danger out. God's protective hand, Reverend Brennan calls it. Gary couldn't lay a finger on me here, even if he wanted to. I _know_ it."

"Look, Cat, I realize it may_ seem_ like that, but how can you be sure…"

"You know what? Come to church with me, tomorrow. Listen to the Reverend preach. Once you hear him, you'll understand. "

Andre flinched slightly. Ever since his grandmother died, he hadn't been able to set foot in a church. She was the most pious woman he'd ever known, she'd never missed a service in fifty years, and it hadn't done her a bit of good when the cancer struck. Andre wasn't sure he even _believed_ in God any more, and he certainly had no desire to have his ears filled with fire-and-brimstone nonsense from some wacked out fundamentalist preacher. Still, if he was going to have any hope of convincing Cat to leave, he'd have to stay on her good side. He could easily choke down his distaste for a few hours if it meant saving her life.

"Okay, if you want. But it's not just Gary I'm worried about. What if there's a complication with the birth? I'll bet there's no hospital for a hundred miles in any direction. What are you going to do, rely on some country midwife?"

"No need for that," said a stocky woman of about fifty with ice-blue eyes. Andre jumped; somehow she had come up right behind Cat without his noticing her. "Our Doc Gallagher's the best you'll find in the whole state of Idaho. Trained in obstetrics and neonatology at Harvard Medical School."

"Then what the heck is he doing working as a GP in a…" Andre realized it would probably be better if he didn't finish that sentence.

"In a place like this, you mean? The back of beyond? Hillbilly Central?" The affable smile vanished. "Quite the nerve you've got there, sonny boy. You've only been in town a few hours, and already you're looking down on us."

"That's not what I…wait, how'd you know how long I've been in town?"

"Word travels as fast as lightning around here. Brennan's Ford's a safe place, and we like to keep it that way, so we keep a lookout for any newcomers who might cause trouble."

"Look, I'm not trying to start anything, I swear. This is a nice place, really, and I'm sure your doctor's great. It's just that Cat's an old friend, and I don't want anything to happen to her."

"Is that so?" Instantly the smile was back on her face, as if the whole unpleasant exchange had never happened. "Well, in that case, a hearty welcome to you. Caterina's our precious jewel, you know."

He raised his eyebrows at Cat. "I've never heard anybody but your grandma call you Caterina."

"Yeah, well…" Cat giggled shyly and put an arm around the woman. "The Flahertys are my family, after all."

"You have Idaho relatives? You never mentioned that before."

"Oh, we're not Caterina's _blood_ kin," the woman said, "but what difference does that make? As far as Matt and I are concerned, she's the daughter we never had." She beamed lovingly at Cat. "Oh, but where are my manners? Maureen Flaherty's the name." She extended a gnarled, arthritic hand to Andre, who shook it. "Now don't you worry, young man. Nothing's going to happen to the baby, not if Matt and I have anything to say about it. We've got a proud streak around here – not one stillbirth or crib death since the town was founded way back in 1865 – and we're going to keep it intact even if all the legions of Hell stand against us."

"You wouldn't believe how much the Flahertys have done for me, Andre," Cat chimed in. "They let me live with them rent-free, they gave me this job, they're even going to pay for a babysitter once the baby's born. And do you know what they asked me for, in return for all that kindness? 'Go to church with us'. That's all. They're the sweetest, kindest…" Cat's eyes were brimming with tears. "Oh, I love you, Maureen!"

"I love you too, darlin'." The woman planted a peck on Cat's cheek. "Forever and always."

Suddenly Andre felt absolutely horrible. Obviously Cat had found a loving family in this place, and here he was, intruding on her bliss, based on nothing but some crank e-mail. Maybe it would be better for everyone if he just turned around and went home.

"Look, I'd better be going. Sorry I bothered you, Cat," he said sheepishly.

"Bothered? Are you kidding? Andre, I'm so happy that you're here. Heck, I hope you stay forever!"

"I appreciate the sentiment, Little Red, but that's not really an option right now. I've got college and work back home, and a house to take care of…"

"Yeah? Well, I'll bet you twenty dollars that after church tomorrow, you'll be ready to chuck all that and settle down here."

"I'm, um, not really the betting kind of guy."

She giggled and stuck out her tongue. "Okay, mister no-fun. But you mark my words. Sooner or later, you're going to fall under this town's spell, just like I did. And then you'll never want to be anyplace else. Not for the rest of your life."

/

As he returned to the bed and breakfast and climbed the stairs to his room, he tried to shake the unease that was steadily growing in the pit of his stomach. _She's content. She __**told**__ you so. She __**loves**__ this place. So what if she seems a little…_

_Brainwashed? _

He was starting to wonder about this Reverend Brennan. Just what kind of thoughts was he putting into the heads of his flock? And if he really had sunk his talons into Cat, was there any hope left of dislodging them?

Or was Andre simply too late?

He was about to slip the key into the lock when he saw that the door was open a crack.

_Somebody's been in here._

_Nothing to worry about, Andre. Get a hold of yourself. Probably just the maid changing the sheets or something, and she forgot to lock up when she left._

He pushed it open cautiously. "Hello?"

The room was empty and silent. Andre looked about; nothing seemed amiss. He opened up his traveling bag and found everything still inside, even the emergency wad of cash he'd brought.

_See? You've got to stop being so jumpy all the time…_

But his nerves were still obstinately jangling. He could sense a presence in the room – invisible, intangible, but powerful – that refused to allow him to relax. He decided there was nothing to do but go to the bathroom and splash some cold water on his face.

The moment he flicked on the overhead light, he saw it. A short dagger of rusted iron, driven into the tiled wall above the bathroom mirror almost to its hilt. A note dangled from it: "LEAVE NOW OR PAY THE PRICE".

If the mysterious writer had intended to fill Andre with fear, he or she had failed miserably. It was _anger_ that blazed in him now. First he had been summoned to the town anonymously, and now he was just as anonymously being driven out? No. This wouldn't stand. Andre Harris was no one's puppet. He would leave when he chose, not a moment sooner – and God willing, Cat would be with him. Now it was time to make that clear to the world.

So it was that early the next morning, as the church bell rang out loud and strong and the townsfolk headed down Main Street to the service dressed in their Sunday best, they saw, thrust into a pillar on the porch of the bed and breakfast, the same rusted blade, now with a new note in Andre's big, bold handwriting:

"Whoever you are, GAME ON."


	3. Rivers of Living Water

**A/N: My profuse and sincere thanks to all those who've reviewed. The soundtrack for this chapter is Loreena McKennitt's "All Souls' Night":**

**www. youtube. com watch?v= eKfbVAO6VGA**

**Disclaimer: As ever, don't own.**

As he looked around the little church, which was packed to the gills – latecomers were even sitting in the aisles – Andre couldn't help but feel out of place. He was wearing street clothes, while everyone else was dressed to the nines, but that was only because he hadn't thought to pack a suit. The bigger problem was that, among these hundreds of people, Andre was the only non-Caucasian. He was used to the vibrant racial and ethnic mix of Los Angeles, and while he knew that he shouldn't let the situation bother him – this was a small town in Idaho, after all – it was still unsettling.

He was sitting in a pew near the front, next to Cat and the Flahertys. Matt Flaherty, whom Andre had just met minutes before, looked eerily like his wife – the same husky physique, the same arthritic hands, the same captivating blue eyes. The only difference was his double chin and the scraggly black beard that half-covered it. If he didn't know better, Andre would have pegged the couple as brother and sister rather than husband and wife.

Cat looked radiant. The glow of late pregnancy was fully upon her, and it was only highlighted by the home-stitched royal purple dress she was wearing. Her hands rested on her swollen belly, and her eyes were half-shut as she reveled in the feel of the child kicking.

Near the ornately carved pulpit, the Reverend John Brennan, a tall, red-haired man wearing a floor-length gold-striped white robe with a green face upon the torso, gathered up a sheaf of papers – the sermon, Andre guessed. He scrunched up his brows at the unfamiliar liturgical garb.

"Um, forgive me if this is rude to ask," he whispered to Maureen Flaherty, "but just what denomination _is_ this church?"

"None," she softly replied. "Where we come from, 'Catholic' and 'Protestant' are words that are thrown around like weapons to justify cruelty toward your fellow man. So when we settled here, we vowed that our church would be beholden to no sect or governing body, answering to no authority but the divine."

The Reverend ascended the pulpit and raised a hand for silence. Instantly the various murmurs and whispered conversations throughout the church were quelled.

"My friends," he began. "I have some distressing news. It seems that the government of the People's Republic of China has issued a demand that the U.S. Seventh Fleet withdraw from the Taiwan Strait, and that the Taiwanese government rescind its proclamation of national independence. Otherwise, the People's Liberation Army will not hesitate to take action, including…" He sighed heavily. "Including the launch of nuclear missiles."

Maureen Flaherty, and many others, gasped. A few cried out. The Reverend motioned once again for calm.

"I know how this must make you feel. Please believe me when I tell you that I'm as distressed as anyone. But let us not give in to despair. For we here in Brennan's Ford share a knowledge that the rest of the world has long forgotten: that the divine has not forsaken us, even if we have forsaken him. And now we must be a beacon to that dark world, so that they will again turn to the divine in this their hour of greatest danger."

"Amen," and "Praise be," the parishioners murmured.

"I would like to remind you of some familiar words: 'whoever believes in me, rivers of living water will flow from within them'. Wise words, are they not? For when we acknowledge the power of the divine, and when we offer ourselves up to him, freely and without reservation, truly we _do_ flow forth with living water."

"Glory, glory," Maureen called out. Those around her nodded their heads.

"_Living water". That's from the Gospel of John,_ Andre dimly remembered. _But why does this guy keep talking about "the divine"? Why doesn't he mention God or Jesus by name? Something's funny here._

"And now," the preacher boomed, "I ask you to join with me. Close your eyes. Reach deep within yourselves. Summon forth the wellspring from your hearts. Let it flow, bathing you in its healing waters. Let it flow."

"Let it flow," the crowd repeated.

"Flow, flow, flow."

They shut their eyes tight and threw their heads back toward the ceiling.

"Flow, flow, flow," said Cat, swaying gently back and forth. She seemed to be in a different world.

Andre looked about him, unsure what to do. It was as if the parishioners had become one body, one mind. He began to feel a twinge of fear.

"Cat," he whispered out of the corner of his mouth. "Snap out of it. This is seriously creepy."

"Flow, flow, flow," she repeated.

"Cat!" Desperate, Andre took her by the shoulders and shook her. "What the hell is the _matter_ with you?"

Her eyes snapped open. "Leave me alone!" she cried out.

The chanting stopped. Hundreds of pairs of eyes turned to stare at Andre and Cat. An angry chorus rose from the other side of the church. "Throw him out! Throw the heathen out!"

"No, no," said the Reverend with a firm shake of his head. "That is not our way, my children. All are welcome here. Even the ignorant and foolish," he added, with a pointed glance in Andre's direction.

"Excuse me?" spat Andre. "_What_ did you just call me?"

"You heard me," Brennan replied. "In this place we speak the truth, no matter the pain to those who hear it."

"You know what? I'm _done_ here." Andre leapt to his feet. "Cat, you coming?"

"Why? Why would I do that?" she replied, blinking.

"Don't you see? These people are crazy! All of them! You don't belong here, any more than I do!"

"Oh, poor Andre," she said sadly. "You don't understand. But don't worry – I'll pray for you. Soon you'll see the light. I _know _it."

"Don't count on it." He stormed out, willing himself to ignore the contemptuous gazes of the crowd. As he pushed open the doors of the church and emerged into the sunlight, he could just barely hear the pastor say: "You see the work that we must do, my children…"

Main Street was a ghost town; all the shops were shuttered, and not a soul was to be seen. Andre picked up a heavy stick and angrily hurled it at the stone wall that ran around the church grounds.

As it struck and fell to the ground, something on the wall caught his eye. Like almost every structure in this strange town, this stone enclosure was heavily decorated. Engraved curlicues in low relief ran its entire length, twisting into spirals, triangles, rectangles. But close to where the stick had landed, the decorative pattern varied slightly. The lines no longer swooped about; instead they straightened and converged. It was almost impossible to spot within the forest of carvings, but when Andre approached and ran his fingers along the wall, it was unmistakable: here was a depiction, exactly to scale, of the dagger that he had found thrust into the wall in his hotel room.

He followed the course of the enclosure, studying the carvings carefully. Another dagger-carving appeared some twenty feet away, then a third after another thirty feet; a fourth around the corner, and finally a fifth on the opposite side.

What did it mean? Almost certainly nothing, the rational part of his brain reminded him. But on a deeper, instinctual level, he had yet to be persuaded.

He returned to the first dagger. The blade, he noticed, was downward – all five of them were. It pointed toward a patch of earth that was bare save for a handful of branches that were strewn seemingly at random. Andre picked one up and peered at it.

_Mistletoe?_

Now the alarm in the recesses of his mind became deafening. Acting on impulse, he knelt, brushed the branches aside, and began to dig in the earth.

"What exactly do you think you're doing?"

He looked up. Someone was standing at the entrance of the enclosure. A gangly boy, two or three years younger than Andre, with an unruly shock of red hair, wearing dirt-stained overalls.

"Um…nothing. Just…dropped my contact lens."

"You stink at lying."

The boy's hand was in his overalls pocket. When it emerged, it held a huge Swiss army knife. The boy pulled out the blade and tossed the knife from hand to hand, seemingly unconcerned about the risk of cutting himself.

Andre tensed up. "Look, I'll just be on my way, okay?"

"You'll be on your way when_ I_ say."

"And just who are you, anyway?"

"Gordon Brennan's the name, not that it's any business of yours."

"Brennan? What, are you the preacher's kid?"

"Right you are."

"Then why aren't you inside?"

The boy chuckled. "My father and I don't exactly see eye to eye. Besides, somebody's got to keep an eye on things out here when the whole town's at services."

"Isn't that what the cops are for?"

"Cops? We've got no police here. Don't _need_ any. We take care of our own business. Speaking of which…" He advanced toward Andre, holding out the knife. "This is going to be fun."

Thinking quickly, Andre grabbed a clod of dirt and hurled it in the boy's eyes. The split second for which he was blinded was enough for Andre to seize him in a wrist lock and twist the knife from his grip.

Continuing the motion, he pulled the boy's arm behind his back and pressed him to the ground with his body weight. "It ain't smart to play with knives, dude."

"Let me go! Let me _go_, you stinking _heathen_!"

Andre put his knee on the small of the boy's back and pressed harder. "Do me a favor, okay? Tell your daddy that whatever he's trying to pull on Cat, I'm going to find out. And he's not going to get away with it. Also, don't bother leaving me any more threatening messages. It's not going to work."

"Threatening messages? What are you talking about?"

Andre was taken aback to see that the boy was genuinely perplexed. _But if __**he**__ didn't stick the knife in my wall, then who…_

_Forget it. It doesn't matter._

He rose and brushed himself off. "Later_, little boy_."

"This isn't over!" Gordon Brennan screamed after him. "There's going to be a reckoning. Just you wait and see!"

/

The next day, Andre awoke early from a night of confused, terrible dreams, and lay in bed for several minutes, sweaty, listening to a rooster crow. Finally he managed to summon up the strength to cast aside the sheets, and jumped into the shower. The cold water did much to help clear his head, and, feeling somewhat refreshed, he opened up his e-mail.

That same asterisk-masked sender. The bristles on the back of his neck stood up. He clicked on the message immediately.

This time it was just three words: "CAROLINE O'CONNELL".

He went to the phone book and flipped to the O's. There were several O'Connells, alongside O'Carrolls, O'Donnells and O'Farrells – _is __**everybody**__ in this damn town Irish?_, he wondered – but none named Caroline.

_Wait a second – it's Monday. The town library will be open._

He hurried through the streets, his hands in his pockets, trying to avoid the chastising gazes of everyone he passed. Apparently his outburst in the church hadn't been forgotten. In the library, the desk clerk was just as disapproving; her unblinking scowl made him squirm.

"What can I do for you, _sir_?" she asked in an icy tone.

"Um…I was just wondering whether I could see the birth and death registries?"

"Help yourself. They're in the back." She flicked a careless hand in the general direction he was supposed to go, then turned away and resumed reading her romance novel.

Both registries were massive, bound in red leather with gold lettering on the cover, and had accumulated a heavy coating of dust. Andre grunted a little under their weight as he removed them from the shelf and opened them up on a nearby table.

It took a few minutes of searching before he found Caroline O'Connell, born July 10, 1976. _But then why isn't she in the phone book?_ He turned to the death registry, and there was his answer: Caroline O'Connell Maguire, died September 12, 2001, of complications from pneumonia. Survived by her husband Thomas Maguire and her son, Patrick Maguire, aged three weeks.

_Once she gives birth, she's going to die…_

Andre turned back to the beginning of the death registry and flipped the pages with unsteady fingers.

Mary Fitzgerald, died April 7, 1917, leaving daughter Fiona, aged one month. Cause of death: complications from pneumonia.

Lorraine Kennedy, died December 8, 1941, leaving son Jacob, aged eight days. Cause of death: complications from pneumonia.

Rose Sweeney, died October 23, 1962, leaving daughter Margaret, aged three days. Cause of death: complications from pneumonia.

_They may boast about watching out for newborn children in this town, but they sure as hell do a crappy job of taking care of the mothers._

_Those dates of death…something about them…can't put my finger on it…_

"Andre."

He practically jumped out of his seat. It was Maureen Flaherty, standing only inches away from him. _How the heck does she __**do**__ that?_

"What is it? What's the matter?" he asked, his heart still racing.

"Wonderful, wonderful news," the beaming woman replied. "Caterina's baby is coming."


	4. Hand of the Divine

**A/N: Thanks again to those who've reviewed. I know this story hasn't exactly grabbed a ton of people's interest; I promise the next one will be more conventional (or at least less bizarre), along the lines of "Beautiful Boy".**

**This chapter is dedicated to JadedAttitude143, in thanks for her continued support. The soundtrack is Loreena McKennitt's "Skellig":**

**http: www. youtube .com watch?v= EWvG2fLSypY**

**(Have you noticed that I like Loreena McKennitt?)**

**Disclaimer: As ever, don't own.**

"Push, Caterina! Push!" Dr. Gallagher urged.

"GrrrAAAAA!" Cat squeezed Andre's hand so hard that he expected at any moment to feel his bones cracking.

"One more time! You can do it!"

"AAAAAA…" She collapsed back onto the pillows, exhausted; and at the same moment a tiny wail pierced the stillness.

The doctor grinned. "Welcome to the world, little one." He held up a small, wet, bawling figure for Cat and Andre to see. "It's a girl."

Despite her fatigue, Cat broke into a radiant smile. "A girl. I always wanted a girl." Andre hugged her tightly and kissed her cheek.

"What are you going to name him?" Matt Flaherty asked.

"I think…" Cat looked lovingly at the middle-aged couple. "I think Maureen. If that's all right with you."

"I've never been more honored," Maureen Flaherty whispered.

Delicately Dr. Gallagher handed his precious burden over to Caterina. She rocked the infant slowly from side to side and crooned, until little Maureen fell silent.

"All right, now," the physician proclaimed in his most officious voice, "Caterina needs her rest. Everybody out."

"But I'd like to stay with her-" Andre protested.

"You can come back tomorrow, young man. But for the time being, you'd best skedaddle."

"Fine," he grumbled. Being separated from Cat was the last thing in the world he wanted right now, but after the episode in the church he wasn't keen to cause another scene and rouse the ire of the townspeople further.

He was dismayed, when he returned to his room at the bed and breakfast, to find that the heat was on at full blast. It made no sense – it was a warm May day outside. He examined the thermostat: broken. He tried to open the window: stuck fast. Swearing under his breath, he took a cold water bottle from the mini-fridge and took a swig.

He had always had a sensitive palate, and as soon as the first drops touched his tongue, he could sense that something was off. Not that the taste was overtly unpleasant, but there was just a hint of bitterness in the water that its mineral content couldn't mask.

Even though the boiling heat was making him desperately dry-mouthed, he decided it was best not to consume any more of the bottled water. He poured it out, refilled the bottle with disgustingly lukewarm tap water, and, after a perfunctory sip, stretched out on the bed.

He hadn't intended to sleep, but his eyelids were growing inexplicably heavy. When he tried to rise again, it felt as though a massive weight were pressing against his chest. Finally he stopped fighting, sank back, and let the sudden tiredness overwhelm him.

He was awakened by the incessant hooting of an owl in a birch tree outside the window. As he shook off the grogginess, he spied a full moon hanging high in the star-studded blackness of the sky.

_Geez, how long was I out?_ He rolled over and checked the bedside digital clock: 10:17 P.M.

_Crap. __**Way**__ too late to go and visit Cat now._

Andre flicked on the light and tried to read the novel he had brought, but the words swam before his eyes; his anxiety about Cat and the newborn refused to let him concentrate. Irritably he tossed the book aside.

The PearPad next. Nothing of interest in his e-mail inbox. On a whim, he tried a search for the first death date he had come across in the registry: April 7, 1917. So far as he could tell, there was nothing special about that day at all.

He turned off the light again and lay back down, but found, to his frustration, that he was now wide awake.

_Can't sleep. Can't think straight. What the hell should I do?_

_You know, I'll bet the churchyard is empty this time of night…maybe it's time for a little exploring._

Outside he was met with an eerie scene. No one was about, which wasn't terribly surprising in itself; but, even though it wasn't really that late, no lights shone in any window, nor, as he made his way through the streets, could he hear any voices or music from any of the houses. It was as if every citizen of Brennan's Ford had simply packed up and left while Andre was napping.

A soft breeze was blowing through the deserted churchyard as he clambered over the wall and dropped down onto the dusty earth. The moon was the only illumination he had, and he stumbled in the darkness more than once as he made his way along, carefully feeling the carvings to make sure he didn't miss what he was looking for.

Finally he reached the first of the carved daggers. A stray beam of moonlight showed him that the mistletoe he had moved aside the day before had all been replaced on the same patch of earth.

_Something's here. I know it. And I'm going to find it._

He desperately wished for a shovel, a trowel – anything. But something told him that time was of the essence, and so he began to dig feverishly using nothing but his bare hands.

The dirt accumulated under his nails as he displaced more and more soil. His fingers began to bleed from the strain. Still he dug, all the time his fear growing as to what he might find.

Finally he struck something hard. He scraped away the dirt. A square of iron, two feet on a side. On it was etched a figure, barely distinguishable now due to age and rust – a face, bizarrely proportioned, with enormous eyebrows, and the horns of a stag growing out of its bushy hair.

Andre levered away the dirt on each side, revealing that the square was the lid of a box. The moment he was able to secure a grip, he heaved with all his strength and slowly worked it free.

It was locked, but fortunately for Andre, the clasp had rusted almost to nothingness. A few blows from his powerful fist were enough to shatter it.

He slid the lid off, looked inside – and cried out, hurling the box away. As it struck the ground, its contents fell out.

A crudely mummified, shriveled human head.

Enough of the long hair was preserved to indicate that it had been a woman. From the looks of her, she had been dead nearly a century.

_Mary Fitzgerald._

His legs shook so hard that they could no longer support him. He sat down in the dirt and held his head in his hands, shivering violently.

There was no need to dig up the other spots. He had no doubt what he would find there – the heads of Lorraine Kennedy, Rose Sweeney, and Catherine O'Connell.

But that accounted for only four of the daggers. The fifth…

_The fifth hasn't been used yet._

The terror shocked him into a sudden, brutal clarity. The dates that had been swimming around in his mind suddenly began to click into place.

Catherine O'Connell died the day after September 11th.

Lorraine Kennedy died December 8, 1941. The Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, he remembered now, was December 7, 1941.

He pulled out his PearPad and searched the other dates – but this time subtracted a day.

April 6, 1917: the United States Congress voted to enter World War I.

October 22, 1962: President Kennedy made a speech to the nation, announcing that the United States would blockade Cuba until the Soviet Union removed the nuclear missiles stationed there.

Two World Wars. The Cuban Missile Crisis – the closest the world's ever come to nuclear war. And the worst terrorist attack in American history.

_And now we're facing nuclear war again._

He thought back to the sermon.

That strange robe.

Studiously avoiding the mention of God or Jesus.

_The protective hand of the divine._

_Give of ourselves freely and without reservation._

There was only one conclusion to reach, but at first Andre refused to accept it. It was madness. People simply couldn't behave that way – not in 21st century America. This – this belonged to a far distant era, back when humanity was young and still in the grip of superstition. It had to have died out long ago…it _had_ to…

But it hadn't.

The people of Brennan's Ford might show piety, but it wasn't directed toward the Christian God. They followed some far older deity, one who was violent and merciless, who constantly demanded to be appeased. And whenever danger threatened their country, the townsfolk took it upon themselves to appease him – with blood.

They weren't just going to _murder_ Cat Valentine.

They were going to _sacrifice_ her.

_And that funny taste in the water – it must have been some kind of tranquilizer. They figured I'd drink it all, and be out like a light until tomorrow._

_Which means…they're doing it tonight._

Leaving the head where it lay, Andre ran like mad through the darkened streets to the doctor's office. "CAT!" he screamed at the top of his lungs, pounding on the front door.

There was no answer from inside. Again and again he kicked the door, but it was sturdy, and refused to budge. He looked about him and spotted a heavy metal garbage can a few feet away on the sidewalk. Lifting it high over his head, he hurled it through the plate-glass window, which exploded into shards.

Andre half-expected that the noise would bring people running, but no one appeared. He stepped through the window and made his way to the back room where Cat was staying.

Her bed was empty.

And so, too, was Maureen Valentine's crib.

"Oh, God, no," Andre cried in utter despair. "Please, no."

He sank to his knees. He was too late. Even if Cat and Maureen were still alive, there was no way to know where the townspeople had taken them.

_Wait a minute._

"_Rivers of living water…"_

"_Let it flow…"_

_This town. It's called Brennan's __**Ford.**__ And where there's a ford, there's…_

He wrenched open the drawers of the doctor's desk one after another until he found what he needed: a local map. Sure enough, just to the north of the little town, where the open plain gave way to rolling hills, a meandering river snaked its way from east to west. A river that, at a single point, narrowed so much that it was easily crossable.

Andre grabbed a scalpel and a knife from the doctor's instrument tray, shoved them into his belt, and took off toward the hills.

_Hang on, Lil' Red. I'm coming. And I'm gonna save you and your daughter – or die trying._


	5. Blood Night

**A/N: I'm pleased to see that people are enjoying this. Only one more chapter to go after this one. (This, by the way, is the longest single chapter I've ever written for any story.)**

**The music for this chapter is Loreena McKennitt's "Between the Shadows":**

**http: www. youtube .com watch?v= qKwUBbYOPrU**

**(I should probably give her co-author credit on this story, don't you think?)**

**Disclaimers: This story isn't meant as an insult to people of Irish ancestry (it would be pretty pointless if it were, seeing as how **_**I'm**_** Irish by descent), nor to real-life neo-pagans (who, I'm well aware, don't actually practice human sacrifice).**

**As ever, don't own.**

High in the hills, Andre concealed himself behind a bush and looked down upon a bizarre scene. In the light of the torches that lined the riverbank, he could make out the half-shadowed forms of hundreds of people, standing practically shoulder to shoulder. Some wore masks, crudely crafted from metal or clay to resemble the faces of animals. Others clutched bows and wore quivers of arrows. Every last one was barefoot, and the women wore their hair loose, falling down around their shoulders. They were talking excitedly to one another, but Andre couldn't make out any individual words in the babble.

The centerpiece of this dreadful tableau was Cat Valentine. She was dressed in sackcloth, kneeling, her hands bound behind her back. From her convulsing shoulders, Andre could tell that she was sobbing. It tore at his heart to see her like this – but at least she was still alive. He wasn't yet too late.

_Now all I have to do is figure out how to get to her without being torn to shreds by the entire population of this stinking town._

There was a rustling in the shrubbery to Andre's left. After his experiences with Maureen, he'd made a vow not to let himself be caught off guard again, and so his hand immediately went to the knife in his belt.

A figure was approaching – a tall red-haired man, silhouetted against the moon.

_Reverend Brennan. That bastard._

Andre pounced and knocked him to the ground, pressing the blade to his throat. "If you call out," he hissed, "I'll kill you. That's a promise."

"I'm not going to warn them," the preacher gasped out in reply. "I'm here to _help_ you."

"Oh, please. Don't try to feed me that garbage. I'm not an idiot."

Brennan looked into Andre's eyes and said, slowly and deliberately: " 'Once she gives birth, she's going to die.' "

Andre's jaw dropped. "_You_ sent-"

"Yes. And I gave you Caroline O'Connell's name, too."

"Why?"

"So you'd put a halt to this madness once and for all."

Andre studied the preacher's expression. If he was lying, he was doing a brilliant job of disguising it. Reluctantly, he released Brennan and helped him to his feet. "Then…you don't believe the stuff you're spouting? About sacrifice and divine protection and all that?"

"I used to. But thirteen years ago, when I saw what they did to the O'Connell girl…then I realized. We've descended into a pit of madness. All of us."

"No argument there. But why don't you set the townspeople straight, then? Why keep on feeding their craziness? You're the town preacher, for crying out loud! I've seen the way you control these people – they practically eat out of your hand!"

Brennan gave a bitter laugh, almost a bark. "You think _I'm_ in control here? I'm a puppet, son. Pure and simple. If I step out of line, they won't hesitate to slit my throat."

"So…what? You decided to use me as your proxy? Put my neck on the line because you were too afraid to risk your own?"

"…Yes." He sighed. "I'm not a brave man, Andre. I never have been. But I know _you_ are. Cat told me about you, when I first met her. How you wouldn't hesitate to defend her when she was in trouble – how you were the first one to notice the way her boyfriend was treating her, and it was all she could do to persuade you not to beat him senseless. She called you…" He smiled ruefully. "She called you her 'champion'. And that's when I knew that you were the one to do what I couldn't."

_Her champion. I never knew she saw me like that._ Andre could feel himself swelling with pride.

"In that case…thanks for getting me here, preacher. Now, it's probably better if you stay put." He eyed the crowd below warily. "It's gonna get pretty damn rough in a few minutes."

The preacher shook his head. "I have to rejoin them before anyone notices I'm gone. Follow me – I'll show you a path that should keep us out of sight for most of the way."

They crouched down and skulked along a narrow defile, taking care not to let either moonlight or torchlight fall on them. The gentle slope led them nearly to the water's edge.

"I'll try to stall them," Brennan whispered. "Meanwhile, you should…GET DOWN!"

He shoved Andre roughly to the earth just as a flaming arrow whizzed past the young musician's ear.

Moments later, the night sky was ablaze with dozens of projectiles, soaring high in an arc and striking the dirt in a great semicircle. Andre's and Brennan's line of retreat was cut off by a wall of fire. The entire crowd turned in their direction, as a little group of muscular men with swords detached itself from the main body and approached the two.

"They knew we were coming," the Reverend whispered. "But how…"

Andre raised his knife and took up a defensive posture, but quickly saw that it was hopeless and let the weapon fall. Two burly men seized him and twisted his arms behind his back, while a third pulled the scalpel from his belt. Another two grabbed the Reverend. They were forcibly marched into the open space at the crowd's center.

Cat looked up at them. "Andre," she cried. "They took my baby!"

"I know, Lil' Red."

The crowd parted reverently, revealing two masked figures of nearly identical height and build. They wore robes like that of the Reverend's, but more ornate, with purple trim. One carried a bronze scepter, atop which was affixed a small figurine of a stag-horned man sitting cross-legged. The other stood by the water's edge, holding tight to a box covered in purple cloth.

And from the box came the muffled mewling of an infant.

"Well, well, well. Didn't I say there'd be a reckoning?" Gordon Brennan separated himself from the crowd and approached Andre, running the dull edge of his knife over his palm again and again. "Should have kept your nose out of other people's business. And you," he said, turning to his father. "_You_ are an apostate. You thought you could hide it from me by saying the right things and going through the right motions, but I saw. I knew about your fall from grace long ago, '_Dad_'. I warned the Masters not to trust you. And that was wise – wasn't it, o my Masters?"

"Indeed, child," replied the figure with the scepter. "It is thanks to you that our ceremony can continue unimpeded."

_I know that voice,_ Andre realized with a shudder.

"Now, then – we must take the omens before the ceremony. I believe the traitor's blood will do nicely for that purpose. Gordon. If you please."

"Happy to oblige." The younger Brennan seized his father, pulled his head back by the hair, and laid the knife edge against his throat.

Suddenly, in the moment of his imminent death, a deep calm seemed to settle upon John Brennan. His eyes fell upon Cat, and he said, quietly: "I am truly sorry that I failed you, child."

Gordon slashed. Blood spurted out from the throat wound as John Brennan convulsed. The scepter-wielding priest knelt to the ground and examined the growing pool of red with intense interest. The crowd waited, silent, expectant.

At last he rose. "The omens are favorable," he cried. "The gods smile upon our sacrifice!"

"Praise be!" they shouted in unison, as John Brennan's pale corpse slumped to the ground.

The two robed priests removed their masks, to reveal the smiling, rotund faces of Matthew and Maureen Flaherty – Matthew with the scepter, Maureen with the box that held her day-old namesake.

"_You?_" Cat cried. "How _could_ you? You told me you loved me like a daughter!"

"And I do," replied Maureen. "You have no idea how many years I prayed for the gods to bless Matt and me with a child. But my womb is barren. So when you arrived here – just by picking a spot at random on a map – I knew it was a miracle. The gods led you to us, Caterina, so that we might teach you, mold you, until the day when you would bless us all by your willing sacrifice."

"Willing? What are you talking about?"

"Release her," said Matthew. One of the townsfolk untied Cat's hands.

"Don't you see?" said Maureen. "You're free to go, if you wish. We'll not hinder you."

"And if I leave…you'll give back my daughter?"

"Oh, no," the elderly woman cheerfully replied. "This box is weighted down with lead, you see. If you don't consent to the sacrifice, I'll simply drop little Maureen and let the river god take her into his embrace."

"No!" the little redhead cried.

"You monster!" Andre shouted.

"This is _not_ your concern, Andre Harris," Matthew Flaherty snapped. "I warned you to leave; you ignored the warning. Now your life, too, is forfeit."

_The dagger. It was him._

"In that case, why don't you just kill me and get it over with?"

"Oh, we'd _never_ do that," Maureen cut in, her smile not wavering for a second. "You've caused us no end of trouble, young man, and your repayment for that is simple: you will watch. You will watch Caterina make her choice, between her own life and her daughter's. And when you have suffered the agony of witnessing your friend beheaded before your very eyes, when you curse yourself for ever having set foot in Brennan's Ford, only _then_ will we allow you the release of death."

"But…why?" Cat choked out between sobs. "Why do this?"

"Because if the gods are to be convinced to turn aside their wrath, they must have a pure and unblemished sacrificial offering. And there is no purer sacrifice than that made willingly out of love for one's own flesh and blood. Four times before we have offered young women this choice. Every time they accepted. And I have no doubt that you, my beloved Caterina, will do the same."

"It won't work!" Andre yelled. "Don't you see? You're doing this for nothing!"

"Is that so?" Suddenly Maureen's face darkened. "You arrogant _fool_. You should be _thanking_ us. We are the ones who have kept this country safe for a century and a half. We came to these shores from a place of famine, blight, and unrest. We believed our new home would be a land of freedom, of peace and hope. And then war broke out – war that turned brother against brother and made the rivers run with blood. Irishmen fought on both sides, and took the lives of their own countrymen. Paul Brennan, the man who founded this town – the direct ancestor of this loathsome traitor –" she pointed at the Reverend's lifeless body – "suffered through that darkest hour. When the war ended, he collected a small band of true believers – some Union veterans, some Confederate – and brought them here, where they would be free to live as they chose. And he told them the truth – that all this pain was the direct result of their having forsaken the old gods. Now we offer up living sacrifices, just as the Druids once did thousands of years ago, and in return war has not touched American soil since this town was founded."

"You can't honestly believe that the blood you spill is somehow magically 'fixing' things. The universe just doesn't work that way!"

She chuckled. "This from one whose own religion revolves around a willing human sacrifice."

"Let me silence him, Mistress," said Gordon Brennan, licking his lips. "He'll speak no heresies once I cut out his tongue."

"Patience, child, is a virtue you would do well to cultivate. First Caterina. What say you, daughter? Will you offer yourself up in your child's place?"

Cat looked through tear-flooded eyes at the cloth that concealed the helpless, wailing Maureen Valentine.

"Yes," she said softly. "Yes, I will."

The townsfolk let out a triumphant cry. "Praise be! Glory to the gods!" In the clamor no one could hear Andre whisper: "Cat…no…"

"I knew you were wise, child." Maureen laid down the box at the water's edge. "Gordon. The axe."

The teenager picked up an immense double-bladed bronze axe from the earth at his feet and handed it to her.

"One stroke to remove the head," she said, leveling the blade at the back of Cat's neck. "Your body will be a gift to the river god, but your head will remain forever with us, a talisman of protection. It is the highest honor we can bestow."

"Wait!" Andre shouted. "What if…what if I offer myself in Cat's place?"

The little redhead gasped. A startled Matt and Maureen stared at Andre.

"…Gods," the Druid priestess said, with a tiny laugh. "Gods, you're _serious_, aren't you? You really would give up your life for her."

"You're damn right I would," he shot back.

"Why? You're not her blood-kin. Her child isn't yours. Why offer up your neck?"

"Well, obviously I'm going to die anyway. And besides, I…I…"

"Yes?"

"I love her," he said quietly. "You want a sacrifice motivated by love, don't you? Here it is, waiting for you. Come and take it."

"Andre…" Cat whispered.

"Hmm." Matt Flaherty scratched his stubbly chin in thought. "Admirable…but futile. The sacrifice has always been female. And if there's one thing we believe in here, it's the power of tradition." He turned to his wife. "My dear, let's proceed, shall we?"

Andre's mind raced. _Have to stop this somehow. There's __**got **__to be a way. I don't care __**how **__hopeless it looks._

He glanced toward Gordon Brennan, who was now once again playing with his knife.

_Matt and Maureen won't bend, but Gordon's the weak link. He's young, arrogant, stupid._

"Hey, preacher's kid," he shouted. "This turning you on?"

"What?" Gordon replied icily.

"The killing, I mean. It excites you, huh?"

"I…I am pleased to do the gods' work."

Andre shook his head. "That's not what I mean. You don't believe any of this stuff, do you? Any more than your dad did. You just like hurting people."

Gordon stalked over to him and backhanded him. "Shut. Your. Mouth."

"Ooh. Guess I hit a nerve," replied Andre, as he licked the blood that was oozing from the corner of his lip. "Not surprised. Most psychos don't like it when they get shown up for what they really are."

"I swear to the gods, if you don't stop talking-"

"Gordon," said Maureen Flaherty sharply. "He's baiting you. Ignore him. We have more important matters at hand."

"Oh, I'm really sorry about keeping you from killing a defenseless woman," said Andre. "Actually, maybe you should let Junior here do it. After all, he tends to get his butt kicked whenever he tries to hurt people who can actually fight back."

"That's enough!" Gordon grabbed Andre by the shirt front and, with a sudden burst of strength, tore him from the grip of the men holding him. As Andre fell to the ground, Gordon planted a boot squarely between his ribs, making him groan in pain.

"No smart remarks now, huh?" The boy's smirk reached from ear to ear. "This is exactly how you should be, heathen. Groveling at my feet, like the dog you are."

"One thing you forgot about dogs, though," Andre wheezed.

"And what might that be?"

"They bite."

He sank his teeth deep into the boy's exposed ankle.

"Aagh!" The sudden pain was enough to make Gordon drop his knife, just as Andre had prayed would happen. He leapt to his feet, ignoring the grinding noise in his midsection of what was surely a broken rib, scooped up the knife, and elbowed the boy in the face.

The men who had restrained Andre before leapt at him, but he was too quick. With single-minded intensity, he charged straight for Maureen Flaherty. Realizing his intention, she turned to kick the box into the water.

"Not gonna happen." He wrapped his leg around hers, stopping the kick in mid-motion, and jabbed the knife against the small of her back. "Now then. Obviously you and your hubby are the real power in this town. So why don't you tell your flunkies to back off, huh?"

"Do…do as he says," she grunted. The men in the forefront of the crowd looked at one another uncertainly, then back at their helpless priestess. Finally they obeyed.

Cat ran to little Maureen and lifted her out of the box. The tiny infant was utterly terrified, and clung fiercely to her mother's breast, bawling.

"Listen up," Andre shouted at the townspeople. "We're going, and you're not going to follow us, 'cause if you do, this woman dies."

"You're bluffing," Matthew Flaherty hissed.

"You really willing to take that chance?"

Andre and the priest locked eyes.

"…Very well. Make a path," said Flaherty with a gesture to the crowd.

Slowly Andre and Cat made their way out of the circle. The crowd murmured angrily, but whenever one of their number came too close, Andre would flick the knife against Maureen Flaherty's back in warning.

"Now release her," called Matthew once they were in the open.

"Ha! I don't think so. Not until we're out of reach."

They backed up along the path into the hills. Maureen writhed in Andre's grasp, but could not free herself. Cat's daughter, exhausted, ceased her crying and fell asleep in her mother's arms.

At last, when they had put over a mile between themselves and the river, and there were no sounds or signs of pursuit, Andre shoved the priestess roughly to the ground.

"Don't think this is over," she hissed. "No matter how far you run, we _will_ find you."

"Yeah? Maybe you will, someday. But I guarantee you'll regret it if you do. 'Cause if any of you lays a hand on Cat or her child, I will personally rip out his throat."

She spat at him. But it was too late; for he and Cat had already turned on their heels and vanished into the darkness of the trees, heading for a new life.


	6. Hope and Fear

**A/N: A final word of thanks to all who reviewed, followed, favorited, etc. I'm not sure whether I'm going to embark on another multi-chapter anytime soon; the lone idea that keeps banging around in my head is probably a) too similar to stuff I've done before and b) too horribly dark even for me. (Blame my current state of depression.)**

**The soundtrack for this brief concluding chapter is Loreena McKennitt's "The Emigration Tunes":**

**http: www. youtube .com watch?v= cHXi2KNBhEY**

**Disclaimer: As ever, don't own.**

_October_

It was the most beautiful time of the year in Vermont, when the trees are a riot of red and orange and the air is cool and crisp. But Tori Vega and Jade West had little time to admire the scenery, as their rented Chevy bumped and rattled along the graveled road. They were on a mission.

The road dead-ended at a crudely hewn timber fence. Beyond it lay a tiny white-shingled house – almost a shack – in whose dusty yard chickens were stalking about and pecking in the ground for worms. A placard hanging on the fence read, in bright red, hand-painted letters: "Blair Residence".

Jade looked about uneasily. "You're _sure_ this is the right place, Vega?"

"That's what the message said."

"Okay, but if you've led us on a wild goose chase, I am _not_ going to be happy."

"You're never happy anyway."

"…Touché."

The moment they set foot on the porch, an unseen bell chimed somewhere in the back of the house.

"What the…a pressure-activated security system? Isn't that kind of overkill?"

"Not in their position, it isn't." Tori sighed. "I wish they didn't have to live like this. It's not fair."

Footsteps could be heard inside the house, coming toward them. The front door opened a crack, and a cautious eye peeked through at the visitors. A moment later, the door was thrown wide open.

Tori squealed in delight. "Andre!" She leapt at him, practically knocking him over as she hugged him.

"Long time no see, muchacha. But just for the record, it's Jimmy Blair now."

Jade muttered, looking away in embarrassment, "It's…uh…it's good to see you, Harris."

"Aw. There's that trademark Jade West outpouring of affection." He winked at her. "Come on inside. I made tea. And there's somebody else I'm guessing you'd like to see…two somebodies, actually."

They entered the parlor, where Cat Valentine sat in a rocking chair, nursing her daughter.

A single tear of delight formed at the corner of Jade's eye. "Hiya, kitty cat."

Cat smiled beatifically at the two girls. "I'm so glad you could come."

"Wild dogs couldn't have kept us away." Tori stroked the baby's forehead. "What's her name?"

"It used to be Maureen, but that name had some – um – nasty memories attached to it," Andre answered. "So Cat changed it."

"To what?"

"Jadelyn," Cat softly replied.

The Goth girl's mouth opened wide in astonishment. "You named her…for _me?_ W-why?"

"I know that once you guys go back to LA we'll probably never see you again. You're putting yourselves in danger just coming here now. But Andre and I don't want to forget you. Ever. So now we'll remember the good times we had at HA, every time we speak my…_our_ daughter's name." She looked up at Andre, who stooped to kiss her hair.

"Oh, Cat, sweetheart…" Jade squeezed her best friend tightly. "We won't forget you, either. And maybe…maybe one day it'll be safe for you to come home."

"Could be," Andre said. "After all, we avoided a war, even though those crazies didn't get their sacrifice. Maybe now they'll finally come to their senses."

/

The packed church fell silent as their new, freshly ordained pastor approached the pulpit.

"Good morning, my children," the Reverend Maureen Flaherty said. "May the gods smile on you."

"And you as well," they replied.

"Let us give praise and thanks to the divine, for accepting our offering, and averting the specter of destruction."

"Glory! Glory!"

"And if ever our country is threatened again, we shall propitiate the gods in like fashion. One young man, in the prime of life, given in the place of millions. For that is our way…our _new_ way."

"Praise be!"

And outside, in the silent churchyard, wind rustled the mistletoe that lay atop the freshly dug earth, beneath which resided the head of the very unfortunate, very foolish Gordon Brennan.

_**END**_


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